


A Harsher Way to Calming

by Cosmicobit



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, But everyone is consenting, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Locs/Sam clearly does not know exactly what he's supposed to be doing right now, M/M, Punishment, S14x11, first person ok but JUST TRUST ME, limo sex hell yeah, some of this is definitely not how BDSM is supposed to work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7739848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmicobit/pseuds/Cosmicobit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When things go sideways the way they did with Lozano, Isaac has a tendency to let all of his fear catch up to him at once, afterwards, as the adrenaline wears off, so it's not surprising when he demands Sam pull their newly acquired limo over for an amped-up quickie. Sam, however, instead decides to improvise a very different way to calm Isaac down than what he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Harsher Way to Calming

**Author's Note:**

> Little heads up: though it works out just fine for everyone, the light bondage/punishment depicted in this fic does not come as the result of an established scene, and safe words (or, in this case, gestures) are established on the fly. There are also a couple genuine punches thrown, because Locus has no idea what he's doing.

 

I am used to this from Isaac. A sense of control is a necessity of his well-being, and he treats threats to it as he would threats to his life; that is, with abject terror he masks with sarcasm, and a rush of adrenaline that follows. He is riding on such a rush now.

He sits with his feet up on the dashboard, babbling about the bandage on his leg, about the inconveniences of anything short of battlefield medicine—as if we would spend such a vital resource as biofoam on a single gunshot wound even if we had it. He chatters incessantly and aimlessly, his eyes dragging across me, snagging on my shoulders and my neck and my profile. I realize what it is he is going to do next, the only question is how impatient he's going to be about it.

The answer is "very."

“Pull over,” he eventually blurts. “Pull off.”

Arguing with him is more effort than it’s worth. I pretend to only for the sake of calming his too-easily inflated ego.

“Felix—”

“For fucks sake, Sam, mission’s over. I have a name.”

“Isaac.”

“What? Just pull the fucking car over.”

“There’s nothing out here.”

“That’s the point, genius. Just do it.”

Siris has gone on ahead of us, careful to stagger our exit in the limo from his in the car, should further questions arise. We are alone. And the likelihood that anyone will find us, though, parked on the side of the road at this early hour is unlikely, particularly here, halfway between the quarry and the city. Appeasing Isaac in _this_ instance would not, therefore, be the poorest choice I’ve made tonight.

That doesn’t mean I’m not reluctant. I am fully aware of where this is going; I am less aware of how I feel about it.

This night has been long. I dislike noise, and people. I therefor dislike clubs, and missions dependent on such an environment. I dislike the unexpected where I can avoid it. I disliked the look in Siris’ eyes before he drove away, some incomprehensible emotion I can only guess to be doubt swimming in them. Whether of himself or all of us, I’d prefer not to question yet. I can’t stomach it. I last saw my bed 43 hours ago, and now is not the time. 

Nor is it the time for anything but quiet, so far as I’m concerned, but even as I protest, Isaac is whining and fussing and brushing the edges of his vitriolic irritability, and there is nothing to be done but comply if I’m to have any peace.

He needs control of this much. That is always the problem.

I stop our hard-won limo.

“Is now the time?” I make no effort to disguise the frustration in my voice, though he is in my lap an instant later nevertheless. He bumps the car horn, the sound far too grating for the circumstances. His injured leg knocks against the gearshift, his motions careless.

“ _Isaac—”_

Too little, too late. He is kissing me, hard and sloppy, his hands in my hair. Tearing at it. And his hips are pleasing in my palms.

He took his pants off half an hour ago to more easily access his leg. They lay crumpled, still, in the back seat, and now his eagerness is all too evident beneath his briefs—far too easy to respond to.

 _. . . You shouldn’t encourage him when he’s like this._ It’s no help to him. Though we do come together infrequently, it’s happened just enough for me to recognize the strangeness of it this time, the desperate clawing of his hands, the too easy, needy grinding of his hips, inconsiderate of my own unpreparedness. He has torn my hair free in seconds, pulls me by it to his neck with one hand while his other works open my jacket.

“Isaac.” His name is muffled by his neck, his racing pulse. I imagine I can taste it, rich with adrenaline, with delayed panic setting in alongside the painkillers.

“Shut _up—_ ”

His voice is airy already, keening.

 _Ay dios mio._ My father’s tongue rings exasperated in my head, better suited in tone than blocky English to this moment. To the tune of it, an unspoken thought settles: _Taking him like this is unacceptable._

I push Isaac away, back against the steering wheel.

 “Christ, Ortez. You’re kidding me.”

“You need to calm down.”

He snorts, and rolls his hips. I bite the inside of my cheek. I will not give into him in his state. I take his wrists in my hands. I can feel his pulse racing.

“You sure?” he purrs.

“Yes. You’re injured. It’s 6:00 am. You haven’t slept.”

“ _And?_ ”

 _“_ And this is not an appropriate time, or an appropriate state, for you to behave like this.”

“Behave— _you lunatic._ You can’t be serious.” I am, and I will ignore his commentary on that assertion's validity. The state of my mental health is his preferred target when he doesn’t get his way, nothing more.

“You are attempting to fuck me in the front seat of a car that seats 12. You are not, clearly, in your right mind,” I tell him, as chastising, as evenly as I can muster with him pressing down on me, warm and desperate.

“I almost fucking _died_ , of course I’m not—”

As I suspected. Delayed reaction.

He does this.

“You were never in danger,” I speak to him calmly, frankly, succinctly. “We had a plan. You had two partners at your back.”

“Big talk for the guy fifty yards up a cliff out of the line of fire.”

“Fifty yards above you providing _targeted covering_ fire _._ ”

The words don’t matter. His pulse is still rising, ever higher, beneath my fingertips. He won't listen like this.

“. . . At least get in the back if this is what you want.”

“Fuck that. Just hurry up and get your dick out, and we can go, you—”

He has wrapped his hands around my wrists, holding me as I hold him, his nails digging down between veins and tendon, clawing at bone. Grasping at straws. Seeking distraction. Frantic.

Incorrigibly helpless to restrain himself.

I wrap an arm around his waist, and unlock the doors.

“What the—”

I pull him up over my shoulder as I step out of the car. He attempts to kick me with his good leg as I carry him around to the back.

“Get a hold of yourself.”

“You fucking maniac, what the fuck do you—”

“ _Be quiet.”_

I throw him across the back seat, and in his thrashing, he rolls off of it onto the floor of the limo. I climb in behind him, and close the door.

On all sides of us but the door, there are seats. Isaac lies on the floor in the center of them, an island of seething, disconcerted anxiety and heady libido. I kneel before him, and yank him toward me.

“Backseat fucking,” he grumbles, “what is this, high school?”

“We have an entire limousine.”

“Whatever.”

“Collect yourself. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, _I’m—”_

I dig my knee into his good leg, and lean over him. I kiss him aggressively and, finally, he is quiet.

He's bitten the inside of his mouth at some point, likely while grinding his teeth, as is his nervous habit. In the army, I was tempted to kill him for doing so over the radio, such a merciless, inescapable sound. It made my skin hurt. My mind blank.

Now, having been spared the sound of it, all I can register of the habit is that it makes his mouth taste like metal.

He arches, protesting my body weight, even whilst seeking it out.

“Get off me,” he snaps as I pull back.

“Not until you calm down.”

“Jesus _fucking Christ—”_

_“Isaac.”_

“Have I ever mentioned that I hate you? I’m offering to fuck you, and here you just—”

 “Calm. Down.” Now I’m shouting, more or less. Growling. That pseudo-shout of command.

Isaac doesn’t seem to understand how to digest it. He looks up at me, aghast. “I . . . you—"

This is not how I usually treat him. But I can see so much anxiety in his wide eyes, in that liquid brown, so much consternation in the knit of his brows, so much he’s trying to mask from himself with this behavior. So I pull off his tie.

I am not gentle.

“Open your mouth.”

“Why the fuck would I—”

I gag him with the tie between words, and he roars some muffled stream of what I have no doubt is profanity. But there is something new in the way he's looking at me.

I take both his wrists in one hand and pin them above his head. I use my own tie to bind them, no easy feat with him thrashing. My hair falls into his face as I lean into him.

“You are going to do this my way,” I warn him, “or we will not do this at all. Stop fighting. Stop talking. Calm. Down. If you want to be done, we will be done, and you will tell me by raising your arms and holding them there. Is that clear?”

He is aghast. No longer remotely afraid, no longer shaken, there is only an awed kind of shock in his eyes. He grumbles something around the gag. He does not lift his arms.

“Good,” I tell him, voice all too rough for my liking, betraying something I’d sooner ignore. “Hold still.”

He thrashes once, for good measure. I dig my knee into his thigh, hold his bound hands loosely in one of mine. He scowls around the gag.

“Be. Still. You can move when I tell you to.”

The vexation on his face is priceless. It’s difficult not to smile, even laugh, seeing his bewilderment, the absurdity of him, his own tie wedging his mouth open, contorting his furious, curious expression. It’s a demeaning position, and surely, he is aware of that . . . but he does allow it. There is no resistance against my hand, no effort to protest, beyond his scowling.

Already, his pulse is slowing. It beats more steadily against my thumb, a natural degree of excitement in its rhythm.

He lies still beneath me.

Isaac is a tall man, but not large. I can wrap my fingers around his neck without effort to push his head back, pinch either side of his throat. He mumbles something. I wait. His free leg closes against my hip. I shove at it with my body, knocking it aside as best I can with my hands occupied. There is just enough force in the movement to make him whimper.

“Don’t. Move.”

The leg goes slack.

Another moment, a few seconds more of pressure on his neck, and his eyes are rolling. His expression is hazy. I bend down beneath my own hand to catch flesh between my teeth, a pull against his neck, just below where I’m pinching. He stiffens beneath me. But he does not move. I lay into him, allowing weight and gravity to bring us together, his eager body pressing up to mine.

I release his neck. The headrush of returning blood flow makes his eyes flutter. I permit myself to grind against him while he reels.

His leg comes up again.

This time I hit him. Unforgivingly, in the ribs. He wheezes.

“I told you to stop moving. I will not ask again.”

He’s swearing at me around the gag, _Or what?_ Written across his expression, wonder in his glassy eyes. His arms to don’t come up.

“If you continue to disobey me,” these words are harder to speak, the realization that I am falling into a roll with which I am not familiar, for which there is a name, disconcerting, “I will tie your legs to your hands, and leave you back here while I drive home. And I will not be gentle.”

His eyebrows rise. His eyes go wide. For reasons that I imagine to be unrelated to the gag, he is speechless.

I feel for a moment as if I’m under a spotlight, with his eyes on me like that. So stunned and wary and intrigued. Expectant. He too, it occurs to me, now has a role to play. So I sit back and pull my jacket off, and throw it carelessly across his face. I adjust it so that his nose is free, but nothing above it. Not his searching eyes with their demands. _He_ doesn’t get to make demands, right now. That’s the point.

Isaac seeks control. _Losing_ it distresses him.

But I am certain, in this moment, that _giving_ it will be an entirely different matter. And that begins here.

The first thing I do is make him wait. I kneel between his bare legs and study him, watching for movement and weighing my options. He is still dressed from the waist up. I could remedy that. Or I could not.

Isaac grunts.

“Shut up,” I order him.

I make him wait another minute—I time it to the second—before I finally touch him.

Isaac does not like this attribute of himself, but it’s a well-known one to anyone who has ever put their hands on him: he is violently ticklish. From his armpits to his hips, down the insides of his thighs to the bottom of his feet, he is helpless against too-gentle a touch. So _that_ is what I do. I begin at his waistband and work my way up his sides, dragging fingertips and knuckles. He squeaks around the gag and jerks sideways, once—

Before I can hit him, he freezes, still at an awkward, twisted angle. I could make him stay that way, but, then again, it's gratifying that he's trying.

“Go back to how you were.”

He relaxes onto his back, arms still above him, breath fluttering. He squeaks and squeals and whines and whimpers under my hands, shaking in place. I imagine tears in the corners of his eyes. I lift one of his legs over my shoulder, holding it there, and trace the index finger of my free hand from knee to groin. He shrieks around the gag. Isaac Gates—ever the delicate flower. I’m torturing him with nothing but touch.

It sparks the beginnings of an idea I don’t permit to percolate: without asking myself what I am trying to do, why I am doing it, what I expect to come of it, I pinch Isaac’s ticklish thigh. His knee jerks once, a reflex.

“ _Isaac.”_

The next time I pinch him, he doesn’t move. Only squeaks.

I kiss the place where I pinched him. The seed of my half-formed idea is rapidly blooming in my head, highlighted by simple nonspecific imagery of the general shape of Isaac, and fantastic sound; whimpers and labored breathing and his utter undoing.

“Do you trust me, Isaac?” I murmur against his pale thigh.

He releases a muffled, petulant sound that may or may not be words.

“That’s not an answer. _Do you trust me?”_

Setting down his leg and bending over him, I breathe these next words against his neck--against his leaping pulse, the hem of my own jacket brushing the bridge of my nose. He inhales too sharply. For a brief moment he is silent. And then he nods.

“Do you trust me to hurt you?”

He was stiff beneath me already, struggling to stay still under dancing fingers I've transferred from his leg to his torso, but now he is _rigid_. A deathly stillness. Held breath. I imagine his eyes. Wide or searching, perhaps accusatory. Perhaps fascinated.

Slowly, he nods.

I don’t know why I asked him this—it's the role speaking more than me. That half-formed idea still bursting in my head with no real understanding behind it: I've never had any particular desire to hurt any of my few partners, the occasional urge to bite Isaac's wagging tongue off aside. But that’s an incidental correlation.

So this is new.

Strange, how easily it comes to me.

I tighten my grip on his hip. Dig my thumb into the soft space where his pelvis curves to accommodate the ball-joint end of his femur. Roll his hip around the pressure of my thumb until the bulge in his briefs rises up to meet me where I stretch out above him. A singular thrust against him, through his clothes, no more artful than animal rutting, prompts a sharp sound around the gag that I answer by closing me teeth over his shoulder through his shirt, with unkind force. I leave my dental impression in his flesh, red and angry and deep.

He inhales sharply. Nothing more.

What I do know, as spontaneous as this venture is, is that the point of this is not to watch him resist. It's to allow him to concede absolutely. This restrained response, therefore, will not do. There must be _more._ An edge it hurts him not to reach of his own accord, a threshold he could never cross without someone else mandating that he do so.

It occurs to me that I don’t technically know how to proceed toward this threshold, as I run my hand down the front of him, palming his eager erection through the fabric of his underwear. I grasp for him aimlessly, gripping ever harder at his hip, surely leaving bruises, anchoring him for the moment I slip my hand beneath the fabric and take him in my grasp. He tries to stretch, buck, into my grip. I jam my thumb into his hip.

“That was not an invitation to move.”

He stills. Forces himself to relax back to the floor, as far as the urging of my digging fingers will allow. I allow him this before moving again—gripping hard, and twisting.

Isaac cries out in unprepared agony. It was a rough gesture, meant to torque, not to pleasure, and his body seizes up despite him, his free leg snapping up alongside my hip.

“You have three seconds,” I order him without releasing him, warm and stone-hard in my hand, a little slick, “to collect yourself. I have no qualms about breaking one of your ribs if you make me hit you again.”

The leg comes to rest again on the floor beside me.

“Good. Remember, do not move—unless you're asking to stop. Or I ask you a question. Do you understand? You’ve done passably so far, but I will not remind you again.”

He nods.

“Good,” I tell him again, and twist him in my hand once more.

I can feel his body tensing, involuntary contractions of his every muscle moving him beneath me, but he holds himself more or less in place as he whines. And whine he does. _Where_ I'm holding him is as much a factor in his discomfort as how: Isaac is sensitive, usually to his hedonistic delight, but that being the case, it blurs the line between pleasure and pain to do much of anything too near his leaking head. A small pinch, and the sound he emits has him choking on the gag.

“I'm going to take your clothes off,” I tell him. “You may move enough to get out of my way. No more. Nod if you understand.”

He does.

His briefs are easy enough. He lifts his hips so I can get them off. His shirt and vest are more difficult—with his hands bound, the best I can do is shove them up his arms as far as his wrists. It will do.

Exposed, Isaac's body is lovely. To tell him that would be a dangerous thing, but it's true nevertheless. Slender and a little wiry, lean muscles stretched over elegant bones, with very little hair on him, he is reminiscent in some ways of a sportsman, or a model. Only a few deep scars, his thigh, his stomach, his back, his chest, betray him for the soldier he once was. The things he has survived.

I pinch him again, right at the tip of him, and not too hard. But he whines and winces all the same, lovely muscles tensing, struggling to hold the splayed position he now finds himself in.  But he _does_ hold it. He does behave.

As my left hand pains him—or, at the very least, overstimulates him—I allow my right to trace him.  Fingertips outlining his ribs, more ticklish still without the buffer of his clothes. I can feel him tensing as if to roll away. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t lift his arms, only breathes far too hard around the gag. He's grimacing around his mouthful of tie.

I brush my fingertips all the way up his side and around to his chest, rubbing a thumb over one brown nipple. Back and forth, until he comes to expect the stimulation, followed by a pinch much more aggressive than what I'm doing to him elsewhere. I bring my other hand up so that I can work over both nipples at once, pinching and twisting until he whimpers. I bring my teeth down on him, once, and he yelps, a shapeless, pained noise around the gag.

I consider putting my teeth elsewhere on him, albeit gently, but it seems a fine line to cross. I settle with a long series of bites higher on his body instead, each hard enough to leave an imprint, each hungrier than the last until my jaw strains and I am certain I could draw blood, leaving a trail of marks that follows the slope of his neck, his shoulder, and then his chest. I sink teeth into the reactive expanse of his side before digging the heel of my hand in against the wound. He groans.

I'm not entirely sure what more to do with him, following this, the role evading me, so I alternate. Chest, sides, I leave long scratches down the insides of his thighs, I cover him in angry bruises, I twist and pinch and rake, seeking out sensitive places. For a while, though, I leave his cock untouched. It seems to frustrate him appropriately.

When I do reach for him again, it's to twist and pull all at once. Done gently, done with the right intent, it could be enormously pleasurable. That is not how I do it.

Isaac cries out, the bold sound fading to pitiful, nasal exclamations as I repeat the motions, jerking and pulling and twisting with the pace growing ever faster. He remains desperately hard in my hand, though I can feel him fighting with himself not to squirm away from the dry slide. He is breathing far, far too hard, now, and raggedly.

A keening quality takes over his aching moans, and I stop abruptly, pinching again.

“Was there something you wanted?” I ask him. He releases one long, pitiful, muffled shout, and nods frantically.

“Tell me what you want.”

Muffled sounds, two syllables.

“I can't hear you.”

Screeching around the gag. I pinch a little harder, and now, he is doing something that I might venture to call screaming. But it isn’t angry. In this sound there is an utter, pathetic lack of fight. It's purely pleading.

 _Finally_.

I pull the gag out of his mouth.

Isaac coughs, spits the taste of fabric in no particular direction, and gasps for a few moments, recovering oxygen he hadn’t realized he wasn’t getting. Evidently his nose was not enough to breathe through, in his state.

“What do you want, Isaac?”

He closes his jaw tightly. I pinch him again.

“Christ,” he yelps. “Finish it. Just finish it.”

“Are you calm? Don’t lie to me.”

He makes a point of exhaling slowly, and nods.

“Good,” I tell him, and begin working him vigorously. “Will you remember not to move?”

He squeals behind closed lips. Nods, but does not flinch.

“Breathe,” I remind him, pulling ever harder, every stroke forceful and unrelenting and unkind.

“Does this feel good, Isaac? Answer me.”

“No.”

“Should I stop?”

“NO!”

“Should I be rougher?”

He whimpers.

I jerk him as aggressively as I can imagine how. Isaac screams behind closed lips.

“Did I tell you that you could make noise?”

The pathetic sound falls silent, and his head rolls back beneath my jacket. The tendons in his neck are standing out, frighteningly stark.

I pull on him once, particularly hard. He is silent, but his entire torso shudders. I find myself frowning.

“Did I tell you to be _silent_?” I ask, slowing my hand for a moment. He’s shaking, now, in a way he cannot possibly hope to control, weak beneath such soft strokes following such merciless, aggressive motion. He doesn't argue the contradiction, the mixed messages as I decide what I want. He simply answers, his head flopping to one side, then other.

“Scream for me,” I tell him. I spit on my hand, his one saving grace, and resume my original unkind pace. It is such merciless lovemaking, but he responds to it. He shouts. He shrieks. He _begs._

He begs and begs and _begs._

“Oh, Christ, Sam— _Sam—_ fucking—”

“Use your words.”

“Please! Jesus, please,” so much gasping, such staccato sound, “don’t stop, don’t— _please . . .”_

I slide a finger into him, a little roughly, on a very particular trajectory.

“Scream.”

He obliges immediately.

Increasingly loud, decreasingly articulate, he groans and shouts and begs me to finish him, begs for harder, for faster, pleads _you can hurt me, you can hurt me, please keep hurting me, just finish it, fuck, just—_ he shakes, his legs jerking helplessly to either side of me, his head thrashing back and forth. I allow him this much, for so little of it is still within his control with two fingers working him so pointedly from inside and the force of my grip pulling orgasm from him from without. With shuddering breaths and heavy gasps and a body that clenches around the fingers inside him to the tune of broken shouts, he comes at last undone beneath me, shaking and swearing and keening.  Several layers of armor on this vehicle, and surely they can still hear him as far away as the city.

With him finished, I release him abruptly from the tie at his wrists while he pants. Even with his hands free, he doesn’t move except to continue to shiver and shake.

I press a kiss against his lower lip, permitting myself to suck on it as I pull away. He's breathing remarkably, deliciously heavily, with his mouth open, and doesn't return the gesture except with one airy, breathless moan.

I study him for a moment. There are welts and red marks that may soon turn to bruises rising all across his chest and neck and sides and thighs, laid out on his body for me to review. I have branded him in repetitive ways, but I have branded him nevertheless. And he is weak with the results.

 “You may move,” I tell him, finally.

But he doesn’t. Not for a long while. And then, slowly, his hands come up. He finds my shoulders, the front of my shirt, and my collar all without removing my jacket from over his face, and yanks me down to him by my collar. He kisses me easily as hard as he did when we began this. But the clawing is no more. The desperation. That feeling as if he is trying to crawl down inside me to hide from something else--the dangerous adrenaline--is gone. He doesn’t have the strength, emotionally, physically, sexually, left to support it. Isaac has reached his melting point.

I clean him up—he is still too shivering and uncoordinated to do so—with a linen napkin stowed in the limousine’s door, and scoop him into my arms and up onto one of the seats. My jacket falls from his face.

The Isaac I find beneath it is a mess. His hair is an unrecognizable disaster, and his cheeks are wet. His eyes are glazed and shining, tears like dew drops on his lashes. His lower lip is swollen. There is hazy wonderment in his eyes.

He watches me with that glassy awe the entire time I help him to pull his shirt down again, to button it over his chest. I present him with his briefs without comment, and he pulls them back on with shaking hands. When he straightens up again, I wrap my jacket around his shoulders.

“How do you feel?” I ask him. It is the _only_ thing I can ask him: I don’t know what other words to offer for what I just took from him, and gave.

“Like painful jelly. What the fuck is with you and your teeth?”

“Are you complaining?”

He opens his mouth once, closes it, scowls. His gaze doesn’t match the severity of the expression.

“No. But, a little warning next time, maybe.”

“Maybe,” I concede. He snorts.

“You’re insane,” he mutters.

“I’m effective,” I retort. “Go ahead and sleep. I’ll drive .”

“What?" He sputters. "Back on the road, just like that?"

I stare at him, waiting for an explanation for his affront.

"You don’t wanna snuggle or something?” he scoffs, half-mumbling. He plays the words like a joke. But, I reach out across the car seat I’m kneeling in front of to wrap my arms around his waist all the same. I pull him forward, to the edge of the seat, his knees to either side of me, and I hold him firmly, stretching to plant a kiss at the base of his throat. Isaac mutters something flippant, but his arms encircle my shoulders nevertheless. A moment after that, his cheek comes to rest across the top of my head. He holds me a touch too tightly.

 _You’re safe,_ I want to tell him. _You were always safe._ But saying as much so overtly would be more than he would accept. _You can trust me, you can always trust me,_ spoken in the unusual, roundabout language the two of us have just now invented in the back of this elegantly upholstered car, is as close as I dare come.

“Fuck,” he mutters into my hair, after a while. He drags himself away a moment later, collapsing back into the limo’s rich leather seat. I can only shake my head at him as he pulls his body slowly free of my reach.

“Go to sleep, Isaac," I reiterate, gently, "I’ll wake you before we drop the car.”

This time, grumbling, he accepts the offer.

He sleeps soundly as the day’s young sun chases us back into the city.

 


End file.
